Don't Look, Don't Touch
by BluStrawberri
Summary: That stranger has no right to touch what is /his/. Johnlock JohnxSherlock Dominant!John and Angry Sex PWP


A/N: Well, hello, guys. I know it's been ages since I've posted a story, but life just seems to get busy far too easily. This is pretty much pure smut. I've always wanted to write an angry sex fic, but never really got inspired/in the mood to. And now, well, I figured I'd give it a shot. I'm also working on another story for Sherlock currently, which should be out soon because it's almost finished.

Warnings: Um, smut. Anger. Angry smut. Domination fetishes. Lowering of readers' standards and a possibly ruined reputation. You know, normal stuff.

OoO

John is angry. Well, John is usually angry, especially when it comes to a certain sociopathic detective. But now…now he's fucking pissed.

John doesn't know why he's so angry; it just kind of happened and he might be slightly overreacting but dammit, not _one_ person is allowed to look at his Sherlock that way. That way, with the heated stares and the smirk and the attempted (but not really) subtle leaning closer to the irritatingly unaware detective beside him. Nursing his drink in his hand, John glares daggers at the man across the bar; the man smirks back at him tauntingly and runs a finger down Sherlock's arm.

His fist gripping the glass of brandy and his mind intent on murder, John watches Sherlock stiffen and glance over cautiously at John. By all means, they've only officially been together for three months now, but three months is still quite a time when they've known each other for years. Catching his eyes, Sherlock smirks slightly and leans in closer to the man. Well, fuck.

_What the hell is your game? _John wants to ask, but his mouth is wired shut and his body is paralyzed with anger. Surely the thickheaded idiot knows enough about relationships to realize that taken means _taken_. Unless…this is a challenge? Knowing Sherlock, it's probably a test of some sort. One that John most certainly does _not_ want to play.

His eyebrow twitches slightly as the stranger purrs something in Sherlock's ear and his finger traces the detective's collarbone. Sherlock, for his part, seems entirely unaffected. When the enemy hand slips into the dark-haired man's shirt, John has had enough.

Drink forgotten, John rises from his seat and walks up to the pair in determined strides. He is greeted with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk from his boyfriend. The stranger looks irritated.

"Can we help you?" the man asks, his voice gruff in contrast with his pretty-boy appearance. Definitely not Sherlock's type, which means that the detective is purposefully toying with John. Well, if he wants a rise, he'll sure as hell get a rise.

"Yes, you can," John grits out, breathing in through his mouth as he tries to rein in his anger. It might be justifiable homicide, but he really doesn't want Sherlock to win. "You can take your hands off of him."

The man raises an eyebrow and smirks. "What give you the right? I saw him first. Move on, shorty."

John twitches; the man might be taller than him, but by no means is he more cunning or powerful. "I think that I have plenty of right to chop your greasy hand off, given that I am his _boyfriend_."

Eyes widening, the stranger looks back and forth between the two. "Oh, hell, I didn't know—"

"I think it would be best if you left," Sherlock drawls without looking away from John. "I'm sure he would not hesitate to follow through on that promise."

The man stumbles in his haste to get up from the bar stool, muttering an apology as he disappears somewhere out of John's sight. John's mouth twitches up in satisfaction before he remembers his anger and the ends turn down again. "Are you _mad_?"

"Judging by your heavy breathing and your stiff posture, I should be the one making that inquiry," Sherlock states simply. The smirk is still in place, and John wants to rip it off of his face.

"I really don't care right now for your deductions, Sherlock. Why the hell did you do that?" John grits out, unconsciously leaning his body forward. "Do you _want_ to make me angry? Was that your plan?"

"As a matter of fact, it _was_."

"Well, it worked _brilliantly_. I'm drunk and I'm angry and I just want to pin you to this bar and show him how much you are _mine_."

"Oh?" Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow. "Well, by all means, don't hold back on my account."

"Home. _Now_," John orders, brushing past Sherlock and hoping the detective will follow. _He might not_, John thinks in the back of his mind, but he hears the rustle of the detective's coat behind him and knows that he was obeyed.

Sherlock is silent and stays just out of John's vision as they walk back to the flat, but it does nothing to lessen the blonde's anger. John wants to remove all memory, all traces of the man's touch from Sherlock's mind and body. He wants to overwrite it and replace it with his _own_ touch, his _own_ scent. His feet bring him to Sherlock's bedroom, and he turns around to look at his boyfriend.

Sherlock stands at the doorway and watches him like a cat, stare slightly unnerving but doing nothing to intimidate the blonde. His eyes follow John as the shorter man retraces his steps and walks up to Sherlock. "Bed."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and his smirk widens. "You really _are_ pissed, aren't you?"

"No shit," John retorts. "Now I said on the bed. You wanted this, you can fucking well have it."

Sherlock's eyes gleam with amusement (or is it excitement?) and he chuckles darkly. "Yes, sir."

The detective starts to walk over to the bed, but stops midway. With the graces of the cat he was just compared to, he starts to remove his clothing. John watches, transfixed, as Sherlock teasingly unbuttons his shirt and proceeds to take off each article with an unhurried pace. The moment his trousers hit the ground and are kicked away, Sherlock sits down on the bed and looks at John from underneath his lashes. "This good?"

"Yeah," John's voice is raspy, and he clears his throat. Looks Sherlock over. "Perfect."

John moves over to the bed and lays a hand on the detective's bare chest. He leans closer, his voice low. "Why did you do that? Was it to get a rise out of me? To make me jealous?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers simply.

"His dirty hands were on you, right _here_," John emphasizes his words by gripping Sherlock's chest harder and digging his nails in slightly. "And I bet you liked it, you little slut."

"What are you going to do, then?" Sherlock boldly asks.

"I will _erase_ him from your mind and body," John whispers. "So that you will only think of _me_."

"Go on, then," Sherlock prods, his breathy voice betraying his challenging words. John doesn't need to look down to know that the dark-haired man is aroused; he can tell it from the glazed-over look in Sherlock's eyes and his slightly parted lips.

John doesn't reply; instead, he pushes Sherlock onto the bed, maneuvering their bodies so that Sherlock is pressed against the headboard with John hovering over him. The blonde pushes his knee between Sherlock's thighs and leans in close. "Were you aroused? Did you want his hands to do _more_?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock says cheekily, but John knows it's a lie and the detective is enjoying their game. John is slightly surprised that the taller man isn't the only one enjoying the situation. The drink sings in his veins, but it is overshadowed by the adrenaline currently making his head buzz in a thrilling high.

"It would never be the same," John whispers, his lips a hairbreadth away from Sherlock's lips. The taller man leans up to kiss John, but John pulls away at the last second before their lips touch. Sherlock's whimper is slight, but it emboldens John. "He could never touch you like _this._"

John moves his hand down Sherlock's chest, toying with a pert nipple and pinching it between his fingernails. Sherlock groans, arching his back and leaning into the touch. With the other hand, John grasps the detective's chin and forces it to the side, leaning to whisper in his ear. "Or _this_."

John's hand slides lower, fingers teasing the dip in Sherlock's hips but not quite touching his member. When he is about to reach the base, he switches directions and traces a path around, his fingernails lightly ghosting around Sherlock's inner thighs. Sherlock starts to lift his hips as if to guide it back, but John pushes the detective's hips down with his other hand.

"Not yet," John tsks, giving a nip to Sherlock's ear. "So impatient."

Sherlock groans and, to his credit, holds still. Not even his arms move to wrap around John, which the blonde figures is a good sign. John raises his hand to Sherlock's mouth. "Suck."

The taller man obeys, his tongue wrapping around the digits and wetting them. When satisfied, John pulls the fingers out with a small pop. John's hand resumes its position, his fingers traveling down Sherlock's inner thighs and up to his ass, slowly circling his entrance.

"I bet he wouldn't make you feel this good," John purrs as he pushes the digit up to the knuckle. "Not like I do."

Sherlock shivers slightly and tenses, a muffled whimper letting John know that the detective is biting his lip. Slowly and methodically, John moves his finger in and out of Sherlock, soon adding more to stretch the taller man. Sherlock's erection is purposefully ignored. _Let the man suffer_, John finds himself thinking. _It's only fair_.

"Lift up your legs," John commands as he pulls back from Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock quickly does as he is told. Feeling no need for luxuries like lube, John spits into his hand and makes sure he at least won't hurt Sherlock _that_ much. He lines himself at the detective's entrance and pushes into him without a warning.

Sherlock gasps sharply, and John waits a few seconds for mercy's sake and then begins to move, thrusting into Sherlock with as much force as his rage allows. Sherlock groans and his head falls back, his knuckles turning white as his hands grip the sheets.

"Mine," John rasps, his eyes half-lidded and wanting to close, but Sherlock just looks so thoroughly debauched that it's a sight he'd hate to miss. "You are only mine. No one else can have you."

"Yours," Sherlock groans back, his voice deeper than usual and making the word sound deliciously depraved. "Please."

Although the word could mean anything, John knows Sherlock enough to recognize what he's after, and leans in. "No, I won't touch you. You can't come until after I finish."

Sherlock, unusually obedient, bites his lip harshly and nods quickly. John reaches back and lifts Sherlock's hips up, moaning as the angle allows him to push deeper into the detective with each thrust. He is dangerously close to coming, torn halfway between wanting to last and needing the release he craves.

John hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, and knows what he's found. He shifts slightly to angle himself and, feeling like a reward is in order, drives into that spot with each thrust. Sherlock moans unabashedly, his teeth releasing his bruised lip and forming a perfect 'O' shape. John chuckles darkly. "Look at you, what a mess. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock gasps, and John smirks at the immediate answer.

"Good," John says in a low voice. "I'll make you come so hard you'll forget about anything else but _me_."

"Please," Sherlock grits out.

"No. I told you," John teases, but he knows that he'll come any moment now. He can feel the familiar heat in his belly and he decides to be merciful. After all, Sherlock has been pleasingly obedient. John reaches a hand between them and palms Sherlock's member quickly and harshly, drawing out needy gasps from the taller man.

John is so, so close, and he crashes his hips into Sherlock greedily and sloppily. Feeling no need for a warning, John grunts as he is overcome by pleasure and empties himself into Sherlock, riding out the surprisingly intense orgasm. To his credit, Sherlock manages to hold himself together for a few seconds more, crying out as he comes and spills all over John's hand.

The only sound in the room is their labored breathing as they attempt to catch their breaths. John slides out of Sherlock and rolls off of him, staring at the ceiling and feeling nothing but satisfied. "Wow."

"Agreed," Sherlock mutters, his voice hoarse but sounding pleased. "I should make you angry more often."

John opens his mouth to argue, but stops himself at his sudden thought. "You know…I really wouldn't be opposed to that."

Sherlock turns his face to look at him, and the shorter man mirrors the action. He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," John says, smiling slightly. "Well, not _that_ particular situation again, but I wouldn't mind doing this when you irritate me. With _our_ relationship, it's an inevitability."

Sherlock pauses for a moment and eyes John, but then slow, wicked grin appears on his face. "That can be arranged."

John chuckles breathily. "I'm sure."

Sherlock laughs then, a rare sound that makes John bites his lip to keep from smiling. "You really are the strangest creature, John Watson."

"And you really are the most irritating asshole whom I've met," John fires back, but his voice is laced with affection despite the harsh words.

Sherlock smirks back and looks at him from under long eyelashes. "Shall we give it another go, then?"

"Hell yes."


End file.
